


All Our Scattered Leaves

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock Holmes, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes once claimed that his body was no more than an appendix: that he was a brain and nothing more. He treats himself with shocking indifference while he is working: ignoring food, forgoing sleep, functioning on the smoke of his tobacco and the thrill of the puzzle. I happen to be a great admirer of that magnificent brain, but I tend to disagree that the rest of him is meaningless."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 216
Collections: Favorite ACD fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written to be included in the _Transformations_ anthology from Carnation Books, "All Our Scattered Leaves" is a short erotic Sherlock Holmes pastiche featuring an established Holmes/Watson relationship, a bit of case work, and a generous portion of smut.
> 
> [Click here to learn more about how this story can continue to benefit Trans Lifeline, as originally intended!](https://sites.google.com/mistyzeo.net/home/holmes/transformations-carnation)

Sherlock Holmes once claimed that his body was no more than an appendix: that he was a brain and nothing more. He treats himself with shocking indifference while he is working: ignoring food, forgoing sleep, functioning on the smoke of his tobacco and the thrill of the puzzle. I happen to be a great admirer of that magnificent brain, but I tend to disagree that the rest of him is meaningless. Particularly as I have a great fondness for that body, and his sense of humour, and his kindness to his street urchins, and the way his fingers linger on the back of my hand when we are in public. But I digress. There have been more than a few times that I've felt it necessary to remind him to be considerate of the needs of his mortal form. And there are also times that I am reminded he is his own man, and knows his own body best.

In a heavy pea soup fog such as the city was known for, Holmes and I waited outside a warehouse at the St Catherine docks that was full of smuggled and stolen goods. The police were on the inside of the massive bolted doors, anticipating the return of the stolen goods' temporary owners, but Holmes, ever the sceptic, wanted to be certain our quarry would not slip the trap. He and I were crouched behind a wall of barrels opposite the doors, the contents of which could only be pickled herring, given the smell.

In the dark, visibility was reduced to almost nil; I could feel Holmes fidgeting beside me, but I could barely see him except for the pale suggestion of his bare hands. Our breath, steaming out in the cold, might have given us away on a clear night. Not so tonight. The waxing moon above us gave off a feeble glow, and my old war wound was aching deeply from the extended inactivity.

"Did you hear that?" Holmes whispered, grasping my thigh. 

"Hear what?" I asked, careful to keep my voice low.

He didn't answer, but the tension in his body made me reach for my revolver. It was heavy in my hand, the chambers full and ready to fire. Holmes coiled like a spring beside me, and then I heard it: the sound of several pairs of hard-soled boots on stone, and the low murmur of voices. His hand clenched on my knee in excitement.

We listened as the boots approached the warehouse and heard the jingle of keys. The heavy chain was withdrawn and the bolt unlocked; the doors creaked as they swung open.

Almost immediately the police sprang into action, lanterns blazing and voices ringing out in the night. Holmes lifted himself from his crouch as easily as if he had not been stationary for two hours, peering through a gap in the barrels. "Bloody hell," he hissed, "they're too early!" He vanished around the side of the wall of barrels.

I hauled myself to my feet, cursing him and my uncooperative leg. Beyond, I heard Holmes yell, "Stop right there!" and another voice reply with an indistinct shout. As I rounded the barrels into the light, Holmes cried, "Watson, quick!" and took off running, vanishing almost at once into the fog. 

I went after him, unsteady at first. My boots pounded the pavement and the blood began to sing in my veins. As I became warm, my muscles loosened and stretched, and my gait became even and strong. We had been on this trail for two weeks now, and now to have it hot beneath us was the best kind of reward.

Our quarry fled into the warren of streets between the river and the London Docks, so we went in after him. I could just see the shape of him moving in the dark, the fog swirling as his body parted it.

But something strange was happening. Holmes, who could usually outpace the members of the criminal class, was struggling to keep up, and in a moment I was gaining on him. He was weaving, one hand pressed to his ribs.

"Are you all right?" I called to him.

"No," he gasped, and the frankness of it almost made me lose my footing entirely. He jogged to a stop, leaning hard against the wall, but when I slowed as well he snapped, "Watson, don't lose him!" His breath was coming short and sharp, and his voice was almost a wheeze.

I took off again, chasing the dark figure for all I was worth. The quicker I caught the scoundrel, the sooner I could be back at Holmes's side. I had a suspicion about what was wrong; it had been the subject of one of our recurring rows, and that it affected his work now would only lend weight to my argument. My heart pounded in my chest, and the cold air nipped at my face even as the rest of me grew warm with activity. I could no longer see my quarry, but I could just hear him, his feet slapping the pavement as he ran. But the hesitation had cost me, and the sound quickly faded as the fog swallowed him up. I stopped to listen and knew, even before I could hear over my own heartbeat in my ears, that I had failed. Holmes was intimate with every crevasse and corner of these streets, but I had not made the same study. I could not catch our runaway, and if I went in too deep there was a chance I would never get out again alive.

When I found my way back to Holmes, he was standing with Inspector Richardson of H Division at the edge of a small knot of police officers. There were four men seated on the ground, manacled and surly. I could recognise a few of them from their photographs, so I knew at once that the man I'd let get away was the leader of the group, Charles Blakeley.

Holmes looked up as I approached, his face stony. He was still holding his side.

"You lost him."

"Yes," I admitted. "He got away into the alleys."

Holmes's mouth was pinched tight with annoyance, or discomfort; I wasn't sure which. "Well, we have his gang. That will have to suffice for now."

As soon as Richardson turned away to confer with a constable, I whispered to Holmes, "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he said, waving away my concern with a flick of his wrist.

I closed my mouth, but by his expression I knew he could tell I didn't believe him. Around us, the fog moved eerily, opening to let light and voices slip through and then closing again before sense could be made of anything.

"We'll have to find Blakeley before he goes underground again," Richardson said.

Holmes shook his head. "He's not gone for good," he said. "With no storehouse and no crew, he's going to be high and dry, as it were." He jerked his thumb at the group of men on the ground. "Someone is bound to give him up, I've no doubt."

"They'll be booked in at Lehman Street," Richardson said. "Do you want to begin the interrogations, Mr Holmes?"

"No," Holmes said unexpectedly. "Tomorrow will suffice. Watson, come."

I hurried after him down the dark street toward the main road. "Where are we going?"

He shot me an unreadable look. "Back to Baker Street."

* * *

We caught a cab home at Aldgate, and all the way Holmes sat uncomfortably upright, not slouching into the corner as was his wont. I wanted to ask if his laces were too tight, as I suspected they were, but the two-wheeler was still too public a place to have such a conversation, even at a whisper. I kept my mouth shut, though I ached to ease his discomfort.

When we reached Baker Street, Holmes left me to pay and hurried upstairs. I followed and found him in his bedroom in the dark, halfway out of his waistcoat already: tie untied, braces undone, jacket discarded on the bed. I watched him fling his waistcoat away and yank his shirt and vest out of his trousers and over his head. He untied the strings of his medical corset and struggled free of the lacings, and hurled it away into a corner. Then he stood, breathing hard, glaring at it, until he startled me with a rare outburst of blasphemy. The cursing turned to coughing, and he had to lean on the armoire for support. I reached out to put a hand on his back but he shied from my touch.

"I'm sorry I lost him," I said, when he had caught his breath again.

"Damn all that," Holmes rasped. "I should have had him myself."

"Your laces were too tight," I said. "I've warned you against that."

Holmes threw up his hands and snatched his purple dressing gown off the back of the chair nearby. He wrapped himself in it, closing it deliberately across his breasts, and brushed past me into the sitting room.

"I wish you'd let me help you," I said, turning to follow. Mrs Hudson had anticipated our late return: the fire was banked and the lights were turned low but not extinguished.

"We've discussed this." He was at the mantle, filling his clay pipe jerkily. He jammed the tobacco down with his thumb and bit down on the mouthpiece. He lit a match, sucked on the pipe until it glowed, and threw the match into the fireplace. He wouldn't look at me.

"Holmes."

"Watson, while your concern is most generous, it is entirely misdirected." He glared into the fire and hugged his arm across his chest more tightly. The cough resurfaced.

As soon as he was done, I tried again. "Sherlock."

"Kindly do not speak to me," said he, "for at least an hour. I need to consider our next move now that Blakeley knows we are in pursuit." He crossed the room to sink into his chair and pulled his knees up, digging his heels into the edge of the seat. He wrapped one arm around them and chewed roughly on the end of his pipe.

I took a deep breath. Fighting him now would accomplish nothing. "Very well," I said. "Come to bed when you've worked it out."

He snorted, which was better than no response at all. That said he was willing; even if he ignored me in stony silence for now, in sixty minutes he would be climbing in beside me.

Having been summarily banished from my own sitting room, I went up to my bedroom to undress. I changed into my nightshirt, wrapped myself in my quilted dressing gown, and sat down on my bed to consider the notes I had taken before our vigil. I didn't consider them for long before the lateness of the hour and aftermath of the excitement had caught up with me.

* * *

Holmes woke me with a hand on my shoulder. It was dawn, and it was obvious he hadn't slept: his face was pale and the pillow beside mine was untouched. 

"I'm going to Lehman Street," he said. "Will you come?"

It was an olive branch extended, so I took it. "Yes."

We stared at each other for a moment. He was still in his dressing gown, and his hair looked like he'd been raking his fingers through it for a few hours.

"Will you let me help you dress?" I asked.

Holmes's mouth tightened. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Watson..."

I sat up. "I just want to help."

"The impulse is noble," said he, "but if I become reliant on you, what have I left?"

"You won't be reliant on me," I protested. "You've got on just fine without me for twenty years. What do you need me for?

His smile was a little wan. "I'm sure I don't know," he lied. 

"As your doctor..." I covered his hand on the bed with mine. "I care about your health. Your safety. You scared me last night. You couldn't breathe, Holmes. You can't keep doing that to yourself."

He looked at me for a long time, reading my face and thinking. "Perhaps," he said softly, "you could learn to do it the way I prefer."

"I just want to try," I said. "We don't have to do it again if you don't like the result." I was pleading; I could hear it in my own voice.

He rose, still holding my hand, and together we went downstairs to his room. Holmes retrieved the corset from the corner where it had been flung and pulled it over his head.

It fit like a short vest: sleeveless, with wide shoulder straps, a round neckline, and its hem at the bottom of his ribs. Up both sides were grommets and laces which tightened until the edges of the corset touched and his breasts were flattened into oblivion. He'd had a few such garments specially fitted to give him the silhouette I was used to seeing in public. Still, I was convinced that he was doing himself a disservice by abusing the lacing.

Holmes adjusted it until he was satisfied with how it lay, and then lifted his arms once more for my interference. Standing in front of him, I began to snug up the laces on both sides at once, working down from the top. I didn't want it pulling to one side or the other. I was fixated upon my task, fiddling with first one side and then the other, pulling the loops out row by row until the ends of the laces hung long down Holmes's sides. I knew he was watching me, for I could almost feel the weight of his gaze, so I met his eyes to ascertain whether my performance was to his satisfaction.

"How does that feel?"

His eyes were dark and his lips were parted. "Not tight enough," he said.

"Holmes," said I, "you have already risked injury by tying it too tightly. Surely you can go a few hours at a looser setting."

"I rest at home; I don't wear it it all night."

"Yes, if you bother to _come_ home. You go days, sometimes."

"Watson," he murmured, "it must be done this way, or you may go wait in the sitting room for me."

Nodding, I began to tighten again from the top. "Then perhaps you should consider giving up smoking."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As you are compressing your chest to the point that your ribcage cannot comfortably expand, you risk injuring your lungs. Pneumonia is very common amongst patients with fractured ribs, as they avoid breathing deeply because of the pain." I looked up into his face. "I suspect smoking doesn't do you any favours. It certainly doesn't make it easier to breathe."

" _You_ smoke."

"I don't wear a corset every day," I said, tying his laces securely under his arms. "There."

He huffed and let his arms fall. 

I offered him his shirt. "But I suppose we could both smoke less."

He muttered, "Tedious," and buttoned up his shirt. "It's a _medical_ corset."

"I know it is, so maybe you ought to be treating it like one. It's meant to support you, not crush you to death."

He sighed and accepted my assistance replacing his braces and slipping on his waistcoat. When that was buttoned, I went around to the front again and smoothed my palms up his arms.

"I hate to see you in pain," I said.

His lips twitched. "I know, my dear," he said, and bent to kiss me.

"Are you certain we have to go to Lehman Street right now?" I whispered against his mouth.

"Absolutely."

* * *

In the cab, Holmes fell into a brown study, leaning back in the seat and staring unseeing into the fog that slowed our journey. As we passed through Holborn, he suddenly sat upright and turned to me.

"Watson," he said, a revelation in his eyes, "what did he sound like?"

I frowned. "Who?"

"Blakeley, in the fog. Running. What did he sound like?"

"Sound like?"

Holmes made a noise of impatience. "Quick, man!"

"All right!" I snapped, and put my hand over my eyes to think. "He was... running, and I could hear his steps echoing off the buildings."

"What was the street? Cobbles? Macadam?" He reached out to clasp my other hand in his, imploring me to think.

"Cobble," I said. "His shoes slapped on the stones."

"And his gait?"

I hesitated, understanding the importance of the question. Our man had been kicked by a horse at some point in his unsavoury youth, which resulted in an undeniably weak left leg.

"Even or uneven?"

"Holmes!"

"Sorry."

"Even," I said. "He wasn't limping. He outpaced you, for heaven's sake."

"Well," Holmes said, "I _was_ incapacitated."

"Even so," said I. "He evaded me easily. He wasn't limping."

Holmes's face was glowing with triumph. "Then it wasn't Blakeley. Watson! Who could it have been? We have the gang, but our man is not accounted for." He squeezed my hand and then let go, sinking back into his seat and tapping his fingertips against his lips. More quietly, he repeated, "Who could it have been?"

"Another member of the gang?" I offered.

Holmes frowned. "Perhaps, but why wasn't Blakeley there? They were going to be moving an enormous quantity of goods from the storehouse to the ship. Why wasn't he there to supervise at the very least?"

I couldn't get any more clarification out of him after that, so we lapsed into thoughtful silence for the rest of the journey.


	2. Chapter 2

When we arrived at Lehman Street, something in Holmes's demeanour had changed. He was on the scent once more. He strode into the receiving room of the police station, head high and eyes flashing, and we were taken at once into the interrogation room. This, I regret to say, was little more than a cell with an old wooden chair in the middle and a drain in the corner. Inspector Richardson was summoned from his lodgings nearby, and consented to Holmes leading the interrogation. Inspector Richardson was one of the ones that Holmes particularly liked because he didn't waste time challenging Holmes's methods.

"Bring them to be one by one," Holmes said to the constable on guard. "Starting with Simpson."

Simpson arrived and was affixed securely, but not cruelly, to the chair.

"Well, Mr Simpson," Holmes said, "Where is Mr Blakeley?"

Mr Simpson, stone-faced, grunted, "Don't know," and wouldn't elaborate.

"If you please," Holmes said to the constable, when he was done with that unfruitful interrogation, "bring Mr Ellis in before Mr Simpson is returned, so that they do not have a change to talk to one another." He took off his jacket and handed it to me.

"Mr Ellis," he said, "What percentage do you get if you undercut your own employer?"

That line of questioning also went nowhere, but Holmes was anything but discouraged. He was eliminating impossibilities and soon he would have his truth. He was marvelous in his element, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from him: he had control of the men in the chair without touching them, without Richardson's interference or the unfortunate Lehman Street habit of corporeal persuasion. I was grateful for the eidetic memory that meant I didn't have to write anything down.

The third man, a man named Kirk, only laughed with some degree of hysteria when Holmes demanded to know where Blakeley was. This seemed to confirm Holmes's suspicion, for he asked, "Is he in the Thames, then, or in some shallow grave in Shadwell?"

Kirk's laughter turned to choking disbelief, and Holmes fairly glowed with satisfaction.

"The Thames, I think, Watson," he said over his shoulder to me. "It's easy to assert you don't know where a man is when you give his body to the tide."

The constable took Kirk away and our last man, Peterson, denied the charge of murder with admirable vehemence. It was bad luck, he said, a mistake.

"So he is dead?" Holmes pressed.

Peterson went silent, but Holmes had his answer as good as confirmed. He let Peterson be taken away again, and plucked his jacket out of my arms.

"That settles it," he said, shrugging into the jacket and replacing his hat upon his head. "Blakeley is dead, and we'll have to get the boats out to trawl for his body. Inspector, start your searches at the St Catherine's docks, but account for at least two days of tides, if not three. The last confirmed sighting of Blakeley alive was Thursday; they might have knocked him on the head the very same night. Watson, you and I have another mission."

That mission was visiting the offices of several widely-read London newspapers and inserting a bit of sensationalist copy into the next morning's run that asserted Blakeley was still at large. It was Holmes's favourite ruse, but it had decent success rates. While the police searched for Blakeley's body, his murderer might be persuaded to reveal himself thinking he was yet undetected. If it didn't have success in a day or two, Holmes would try something else.

We also stopped to eat a late breakfast that was closer to lunch than anything else, and the whole time Holmes fairly sparkled with wit and enthusiasm. He kept touching my hand as we talked, and the simple affection of it made me warm all over. 

After our luncheon, he said, "I'm sending you home, John. I have a thread I'd like to follow, but I fear it may turn out to be nothing. I'm not going to waste your time with it."

"You know I am of the opinion that no time spent with you is ever wasted," I said.

He chewed his lower lip and then flashed me a not-entirely-convincing smile. Either he had very high hopes for this 'thread' or he had some kind of ulterior motive to get rid of me.

"Two people would be noticed," he said. "I'm going to stop at my bolthole in Eastcheap for a change of clothes."

I nodded. "All right," I said. "Be careful, and send me a note or something if you're going to miss supper."

He squeezed my elbow in gratitude, and then slipped away into the throng of people in the street.

I went home, feeling a little adrift. We'd been working this case together for a fortnight; to be put aside now stung. But then again, sometimes he was quicker on his own. He was right that one person often moved easily when two could not, so I tried not to take it personally. Perhaps he just needed a little bit of time alone. Living in each other's pockets and working together every day could become wearing on even the most resolute of partners. 

I saw the benefit of it as soon as I got home to a quiet flat, and spent a few hours tidying. I picked up the books and papers that had gradually spread throughout the sitting room as we'd researched and followed leads, and organised them on Holmes's desk. I collected days-old dishware that had made its way to distant bookshelves and window sills and took them down to the kitchen. By the time I was done, the rooms were refreshed and I felt lighter. Holmes and I both had our roles to play, and for now mine was a supporting one. I would be here for him when he came home.

A street urchin called Horatio appeared on the doorstep a little after seven, carrying a grubby note which read:

_All well, having some success, home before dawn. -SH_

I went for a walk, ate supper alone while reading the evening news, and went to bed early. Only a very little anxiety chewed at me: a natural consequence of caring for a man who deliberately got himself into trouble for the sake of other people. Nevertheless, I slept.

* * *

When I awoke, Holmes was a long, warm line against my side. He'd arrived some time in the early hours, smelling of tobacco and coal smoke, his fingers and toes and the tip of his nose cold as ice. I remembered waking to the weight of his body joining mine, and the susurration of his voice as he identified himself. Now his head was on my outstretched arm, and his spine abutted my ribs. I let my hand wander down his arm and over his hip, his nightshirt soft beneath my fingers. He stirred, murmuring something, and was still again. The blankets were mounded over us, trapping our body heat; I regretted leaving to take care of my body's primary morning demands.

When I returned, Holmes was sprawled in the space I had occupied, his arms stretched out and his face peaceful and still. As I approached, however, I spotted the barest twitch of his mouth that suggested he might not be so innocently asleep as he intended me to believe. I lifted the blankets carefully and put one knee down beside his hip, then the other down between his legs. I lowered myself atop him, tucking myself into the curve of his belly and side, ending up with my face in the crook of his neck and one hand up under his shoulder blade. He exhaled hard and started to giggle, his arms coming up to embrace me.

"Good morning," said I, to the skin of his throat.

"Hmm," he sighed, rubbing his hands up and down my back and shifting his hips to accommodate the weight of my body. My prick was soft against the hollow of his hip, but it perked up a little as he wriggled. He carded one hand up through my hair. I kissed his neck. Under my lips, his pulse throbbed. I kissed him again, letting my lips linger, rubbing my moustache softly under the corner of his jaw. He sighed again, his fingers tightening briefly, and he tipped his chin up to give me permission and more room.

"Holmes," I said softly, pulling back, “I– I feel as though I ought to apologise."

He opened his eyes in surprise. "Apologise?"

I carded my fingers through his hair, watching them instead of meeting his gaze. "For meddling in your affairs. Your health and well-being is paramount to me," I said, "but you are the master of your body, and I have no right to tell you how you ought to be... that is to say, you're right. You have been taking care of yourself since your adolescence, and you don't need me meddling in your comfort, or your laces. Your... your presentation of self is just as important to your well-being as your lung capacity, and I apologise for insisting on becoming involved. I just want you to be happy."

Holmes was silent for an agonising minute, staring at me. I bit my lip against my own impulse to hide my face or get out of bed. Then he laughed, short and sharp, and took hold of my chin to make me look into his eyes.

"You are a very dear fellow," he said, "and it is why I love you. As a matter of fact, I was going to tell you that _you_ were right."

"Oh?"

"I went about as a longshoreman yesterday," he said.

"Of course you did," I muttered.

He grinned. "I had suspicions about where a new gang member would come from and what he might offer the group. At any rate, I hardly thought about it until I was nearly home but... I was quite comfortable all day. My gussets didn't pinch. I could breathe easily. Nothing... _moved_ beneath the corset, as I feared it would. I didn't feel any _different_ , except that I was not quite so snug. I've been lacing myself about as tight as I can stand, out of habit, but it seems the lines of my suit are a little more forgiving than I credit them." He held up a hand to stop my protest. "I _know_ you've warned me, but you're not the one _wearing_ the damn thing. You have nothing to hide, Watson, no perception to maintain. It is a matter of pride that I am taken at face-value. But I suppose there is a balance to be found between form and function."

"I don't mean for you to change yourself."

"I don't intend to," he said, rubbing his hand up and down the middle of my back, rucking up my nightshirt and smoothing it out again. "But I might... that is to say, I have gone long enough turning down help when it's kindly offered. 'No man is an island entire of itself.'"

I bent to kiss his forehead. "If any man were an island."

"I don't _want_ to be an island," he said. "What bloody good is an island? 'Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main', and goodness knows 'I am involved in mankind'."

"You do tend to get involved," I laughed.

He poked me in the ribs with one finger, but at the same time he reached up to kiss me, so I forgave the jab. His hand closed in the fabric of my nightshirt as we kissed, holding me against him. We traded kisses slowly, warming each other up; his lips parted and his tongue touched mine, sending a spark of pleasure through me. He let go of my nightshirt to rub up and down my arm and back up over my shoulder, tucking his fingers into my loose collar and petting the bare top of my spine. I kissed him again and again, dipping deeper into his mouth every time. I listened to his breathing change, growing shallow. He sank his fingers into my hair and his fingertips on my scalp were heaven. 

I let my free hand wander, mirroring his caresses of me, passing my palm up his ribs and down his arm, and then back. I detoured to his breast, caressing the pectoral muscle I could feel in the crook of his underarm and then cupping the flesh that swelled above it. Holmes made an approving noise in his throat, so I gave my handful a little squeeze and kissed his mouth again.

Holmes released his hand from my hair and grabbed the middle of the back of my nightshirt instead. "Get rid of this," he said.

I obliged, pushing up onto my knees to let him pull it over my head, and then freeing my arms and tossing the fabric aside. My prick bobbed, half-hard, and Holmes stroked a hand down my belly to close his fingers around it. He gave it a friendly tug, and then let go to wriggle out of his own nightshirt. Then he reached up to pull me down atop him again. I still straddled his thigh, but now my erection pressed against his belly and our bare skin rubbed together deliciously. He kissed me hard, opening my lips with his tongue and getting a grip on my hair once more to tilt me to his satisfaction.

He broke the kiss to move my hand for me, replacing it on his right breast and said, "Carry on, Watson."

"Not too tender, are you?" I asked. "Not too badly chafed?"

He snorted and kissed me again, rather than answer.

I rubbed his nipple with my thumb until it was stiff. Then I licked that thumb and carried on rubbing, until Holmes's hand in my hair tightened and he growled, "Just lick it, for God's sake, John."

Laughing, I bent and licked him. His exhale hissed out between his teeth and his hips jerked. I sucked his nipple into my mouth, laving it with my tongue; I massaged the swell of his breast, kneading it with my fingertips. His spine arched as he pressed himself against me, his breath coming short and sharp. I pulled back to admire my handiwork; against his pale, unblemished skin, his nipples were rosy and gleaming damp. In the cool air they were tight little peaks. Holmes was blushing down his chest, and his flat stomach heaved.

"John," he whispered, and nothing more.

I switched my attention to the other nipple, and began to suck and lick it while with my fingers as I pinched and caressed the first. I could hold the entirety of his breast in my one hand; the perfect palmful of flesh. His short nails scratched at my scalp, and his other hand was gripping my upper arm, fingers flexing. His right knee was splayed wide. The smell of his arousal made my cock throb.

He dragged my head up for another deep kiss, and then pushed my leg off his thigh so that I lay beside him. In this position he could spread his legs fully, and my hand was drawn like a magnet to the soft place between his thighs. 

I scratched my fingers in his pubic hair and stroked his outer lips as he sighed against my mouth. His hand not in my hair reached across his body to pinch my nipple. I dipped my fingers inwards; his quim was slick and soft, welcoming my touch. I felt him heave another breath and took the opportunity to bite his lower lip until he moaned. Then I turned my head aside and applied myself to his neck, alternately biting softly and sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

"Gentle," he gasped, and I let up. Blood had begun to rise to the surface: speckled evidence beneath his skin. I never marked him where it would be seen above his collar, but I liked to leave them where he might spot them during his morning toilet. My prick twitched, encouraged by the imagining.

When first Holmes and I began our affair, he was exceedingly hesitant to give me full rein of his body. He feared perhaps that I would be shocked to learn what he hid beneath his carefully tailored suits and affected disinterest. But I did not waste my time at the University of London, and I like to think my degree in medicine was still relevant when it came to him. I recognised what he was, who he was, and the first time we lay together I touched him without hesitation. It took half a year for me to coax an orgasm from his reluctant body, but every attempt was worth the practice. Now he gave himself over to me entirely, gasping and squirming, whispering direction, letting me bring him all the pleasure I could. I worshipped him from top to toe, for his magnificent brain and his given body and his gentle, generous spirit.

I stroked my fingertips up and down his wet inner lips, pushing in slowly and testing his readiness. One finger sank in easily, up to the knuckle, so I worked that in and out while I nibbled and kissed his throat. His collarbones have always been of particular interest to me, so I spent some time appreciating them. With my thumb, made slippery by his excitement, I teased his clitoris until I could feel the stiffened nub of it easily.

His hips were moving in little circles, pushing into my hand.

"Do you want my mouth?" I murmured in his ear.

"No," he said, turning to kiss my face. "That is, yes, but not there."

I lifted my head. "No, indeed?"

Sheepishly, his cheeks flushing pink, he cupped his right breast and circled his thumb around his nipple. "Here was nice."

I grinned. "I would be happy to oblige," said I. "Will that be enough for your satisfaction?"

Holmes nodded. His hair rustled against the pillow. "I daresay it will."

"Good." I kissed him again on the mouth, unable to help lingering there, revelling in the plushness of his lips, and then shifted down the bed so that I could both suck his nipples and frig him to completion.

I had two fingers in him now, crooked slightly to tug at his inner walls. I rolled my thumb back and forth across the head of his clitoris, and then worked it in a circle until he gasped. My mouth was full of his sensitive left nipple, and at a hint of teeth he would whine and shudder. The tension in his body was rising; I could feel it in the aborted thrusts of his hips and the tightness of his fist in my hair. His other hand squeezed his right breast roughly; the one I couldn't reach. I rocked my hips, pushing my cock against the side of his hip, leaving a wet smear on his skin.

"Relax," I murmured, lifting my head to look at him. His nipple was bright red, wet from my mouth. His face was a similar colour, and his mouth was half-open as he panted for breath.

He flashed me a grin. "I'm nearly there."

"I know," I said. "What can I do?"

"You're doing splendidly."

I kissed him. "What more?"

He let go of his breast and slipped his hand down his belly, tucking his fingers under my thumb and taking control of his clitoral stimulation. "Fuck me," he said, "deep, I'm–"

What he was, exactly, he never said, but I obeyed, drawing back to plunge my fingers deeper, faster, the wet, sucking sound of his body engulfing me loud enough to make me blush. He frigged himself rapidly, moans slipping out between his clenched teeth. I moved back to his neck, tucking my nose against his hammering pulse.

"John," he gasped, warning me, though the warning was unnecessary. His body was clenching, his internal muscles clamping down on my fingers. I resisted them, still fucking him as his hips rose, and then they began to pulse around me. He cried out, his head thrown back, and a gush of fluid soaked my hand and wrist. He shuddered hard, his moans loud, as the orgasm went through him in waves. My own cock ached with the need to join him. I rubbed against him a little harder, working my hips in time with my thrusting hand.

"Enough," Holmes gasped, pushing my hand away, "enough, enough." He was breathing hard, and the bedclothes beneath him were soaked. "By Jove, John."

I moaned against his neck, laying my wet hand gingerly on his hip, my desire almost overwhelming.

"Come here," he panted, reaching for my prick. The first touch of his hand had me groaning; his fingers were slippery with his own wetness. He shifted us so that our positions were changed, me on my back and he reaching over me to jerk my prick furiously. I clung to him, gasping into his neck; my cock felt huge in his slender hand. His breasts pressed against my side, and he draped his long thigh over mine to hold me tighter.

I came with a grunt, spurting over his hand and streaking my belly. He stroked me until I shivered, working the last sluggish drops of semen out of me. Then we subsided, tangled together, letting our respiration slow down and even out.

"What," Holmes said, "on earth did you do to me?"

I lifted my head. He was feeling the wet spot beneath his hips.

I shrugged one shoulder and reached for a hand towel stowed under the bed. "I'm sure I don't know," said I, mopping my belly, "but I daresay you enjoyed it."

He snorted and squirmed around until he wasn't lying directly in his own emission, which meant he was lying partially on top of me. "I suppose I did," he said.

"Then I propose we don't look too carefully," I said, wrapping him tightly in my arms. "And perhaps try to replicate it some time."

"Hmm, perhaps."

There was a tap on the door. Holmes lifted his head in surprise, and then we both sat part of the way up.

Mrs Hudson's voice came through the heavy wood, "Mr Holmes? Inspector Richardson stopped by early this morning and left a note for you to be delivered as soon as you were awake. Normally I wouldn't bother you, of course, but..."

Holmes sprang out of bed and scrambled for his dressing gown. Decently wrapped, he went to the door and cracked it open. She stuck a note through the gap and for a moment I couldn't hear what they were saying to one another. Then he thanked her and shut the door. He handed me the missive and shucked his dressing gown, starting towards his wardrobe. The afterglow was over, but I did not find myself particularly disappointed. I sat up and opened the note.

"'Anonymous tip last night lead to arrest of Mr Thomas Carlisle in the murder of Samuel Blakeley,'" I read aloud. "You were the anonymous tipster, weren't you?"

"Perhaps!" Holmes exclaimed. "Come on, then, John. Lace me up and we'll go."

I got out of bed and approached, taking the proffered corset from his hands. "You're sure?"

"As long as you can do it quickly, my man," said he, stepping into his drawers. "There's not a moment to be wasted."


End file.
